Captured
by WriteOnForever
Summary: He is prisoner of Black Manta. He is hurt. He is scared. He is alone.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: Nope.

Captured

Blood trickles down Garfield's face, staining his already battered skin. He doesn't dare move, though, because it'll just give Tommy Terror a reason to prolong the beating. Four days—a thousand lifetimes—has taught him that submission is the only way to end the pain.

"Aw, is the itty bitty animal hurt?" the meta-human sneers, stepping on his fingers and crushing them to the ground.

With a gasp of pain, he turns bright green eyes toward his tormentor. "Please stop."

"Why should I?" A kick to his ribs bring forth a yelp. "Ain't got much else to do, y'know. Might as well have some fun."

"P-please." He can feel the tears forming, but he fights to keep them from falling. "Please stop."

"Give me a reason," the man demands, circling him. "One good reason."

There is no answer he can offer; he had given up on finding one two days ago. Shakily, he repeats, "Please stop."

"You ain't gon' last very long if yer this weak," Tommy mocks.

Garfield remains silent. This—the abuse, the insults—has become ritualistic. Initially, he fought, physically and verbally. Now, he accepts it. His body is bruised, his soul is breaking, and he's just so very, very tired.

"Maybe I should just kill you, put you out of yer misery. Wouldn't that be mighty kind of me?"

"Yes," he whispers, the right answer.

"Better death than what they gon' do to you."

His breath catches in his throat. Tommy never said that before. "W-what?"

Dropping to the floor, his captor grabs him roughly by the hair and forces him to his knees. Smiling cruelly, he explains, "They gon' experiment on you. See what makes you tick. They already workin' on yer friends. Lord, you should hear them _scream_."

"You're lying," he barks.

A slap across the face leaves his head spinning. "Don't you be callin' me a liar, boy. I'm the one workin' with these folks, remember? So trust me when I say that they can't _wait_ to cut you open. Of the three of you heroes, they most interested in you."

"Then why haven't they already started?" he asks, voice barely audible.

Shrugging dismissively, he responds, "Gots their hands full with the others. They want to give you _special_ attention."

Shuddering involuntarily, he shakes his head, stammering, "T-they wouldn't d-do that."

"Fine, don't believe me." Leaning forward, he whispers in the teen's ear, "But by the time they done with you, you gon' wish you were never born."

The fear that has been gnawing at him grows, devouring him in a single bite. The tears break free, mingling with the drying blood, tainting his lips with iron and salt.

Tommy lets out a howl of laughter. "Aw, the poor itty bitty animal is crying! Maybe I ought to put you to sleep for a while."

He raises his fist, but before he can deliver the blow, a cold female voice declares, "Enough, Terror."

Blinking rapidly, Garfield focuses on Tigress as she walks toward them. "Take the prisoner back to his cell. He is not your personal punching bag."

"I ain't doing nothing wrong," the other retorts, throwing Garfield to the ground.

With a roll of her eyes, she responds, "Just take him back. Black Manta wishes to speak with us."

"You _ain't_ the boss of me," he growls.

"But Black Manta is, as is his son. And as I was hand-picked to aid him, I suppose that I _am _the boss." Narrowing her eyes, she commands, "Now do as I say. And _please _refrain from killing him—he is no use to us dead."

Grumbling, Terror obeys, taking Garfield by the arm and pulling him to the cramped, dark cell. Shoving him inside, he mocks, "Sweet dreams."

Crashing onto the cold floor—there is nothing else in his cell, not even a mattress—Garfield curls into a ball, burying his head in his arms. Breathing deeply, trying to control himself, he inspects the damage from today. The few areas of his flesh that hadn't been battered are now gracing indigo contusions and scarlet cuts. Tentatively, he places two fingers on the slash in his forehead. It's still bleeding.

"Souvenirs," he mutters bitterly to himself.

As soon as the word leaves his mouth, memories of his life with the Team invade his thoughts. The missions, the laughter, the happiness. Everything he needs, everything he's ever wanted. And he may never get it back. Despair destroys the hope that had nestled within his heart, and a few hiccups and whimpers give way to full-fledged sobbing as he hugs his shoulders tightly, struggling so hard to make no noise.

He wants to be free of this inhibitor collar. If he had his morphing abilities, he wouldn't even use them to try to escape. All he would do would become a turtle. He'd submerge himself into the conscious of the reptile, the one which carried its home and its life and its safety on its back, the one that could hide from the world and all the bad things.

He wants to be with Jaime and Bart. That first day, they'd awakened together, staring at the crew under Black Manta's command. Bart had been in the middle, and the warmth emanating from him and the buzz of his heartbeat had dulled Garfield's fear. It was then that Kaldur'ahm, the traitor, approached them, silver eyes dark, and Jaime started screaming, a mix of Spanish and English, demanding how he could do this. A single snap of Kaldur'ahm's fingers and Jaime was dragged away. The last thing he'd said: "Don't hurt them! Don't you dare hurt them!" Because he was the oldest and he was trying so hard to save them. It meant nothing, though, because he and Bart were then separated, each being taking in opposite directions. No more warmth, no more heartbeat, no more comfort. Just darkness and damp air and degradation.

He wants to be with Megan. She'd hug him and kiss him and ruffle his hair and make everything better.

He wants to be with Rita. She'd tuck him in like she did right after he joined the Patrol and tell him as many stories as he needed to fall asleep.

He wants to be with his mom.

The sound of approaching feet launches him into reality. Sniffling, he gets himself into a sitting position, mentally preparing for what is to come. To his surprise, it's Tigress who stops in front of his cell.

They stare at each other for a few minutes, neither saying anything. He's trying to read her, understand why she's here, but he can't. Behind her mask, her face is blank, void of emotions. For a split second, he _almost _thinks he sees pity, but that can't be because she is Kaldur'ahm's right hand, his most loyal minion. Besides, as quickly as he distinguishes it, it is gone, apathy once more. He's imagining things. He's wanting things.

When she leaves without a word, he lies down and sleeps. In his dreams, he is home.


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: All rights to people who'd sue me over this.

Chapter 2

This is _so _not crash.

When he had taken the risk to come back in time, he had known what he was getting into. The future depended on how he changed the past. Humanity's fate rested with him and him alone.

No pressure, right?

It was serious, what he was doing. Not some vacation or journey taken out of boredom.

At least, it had started that way.

If he's going to be honest—which he might as well be because there's not much else he can lose—he had let his mission fall on the backburner. After saving the Flash, he had simply allowed himself to believe that the future was salvaged. Of course, one single event wasn't enough to alter the course of history, and he should have spent more time deducing what else he had to influence in order to secure his objectives, but he couldn't _focus _on that when the world was perfect, with people who smiled and loved and _lived_. It was selfish and it was wrong but he needed it so badly, this escape.

Now, as he lies chained to the gurney, pieces of his flesh flayed off his body so they can examine his DNA, deep slices on his arms and legs so they can determine how quickly his healing actually works, hours without food or water so they can study his metabolism, he's reminded of suffering and pain and despair. His respite obliterated, he faces the anguish he had hoped he'd left behind.

The doctor, as he is forced to call this monster, pokes the scarring cuts. "Impressive. Ten minutes and they are nearly healed."

"Would've taken less time if you actually fed me," he retorts, squirming under his intense gaze.

Grabbing him tightly by the jaw, he sneers, "Back talking again, are we? You have forgotten your lesson from yesterday so quickly? Perhaps you'll need a reminder."

A whimper dying in his throat, Bart shakes his head. "N-no."

"Hmm. I can't quite take your word for it." Reaching into his pocket, the doctor removes the inhibitor collar's controller.

"Don't, please. I'm sorry, I won't talk back," he promises, staring at the controller with wide eyes. "Just don't do it, please."

A sadistic smirk on his face, the doctor pushes the button, and a rush of electricity pulses through Bart's body. Screaming, he jerks futilely against the metal restraints.

"What are you doing?"

The doctor ends the assault, and the young speedster gasps and swivels his head. Tigress, arms crossed over her chest, is in the experimenting room.

"Putting the subject in his place," is the cold response.

With an exaggerated roll of her eyes, she all but growls, "Please explain how you can possibly put him in his place when he is incapable of moving. And do not dare give me the excuse that he was disrespecting you."

The doctor remains silent, absentmindedly twirling the controller in his hands.

"Release him and take him to his cell. When was the last time you fed him?"

"That is not your call to make or your question to ask!" he spits. "He is under my control—"

"And _you _are under _mine_. We need these prisoners alive. Why can none of you idiots remember that?"

"I wouldn't have killed him," he insists, a slight pout on his face, and Bart can't help put snicker.

Anger contorts the doctor's features, but before he can do anything, Tigress declares, "Cell, now. Feed him. Or must I inform Black Manta that his men are too focused on their pride to follow through with the operation?"

Stone-faced, he flips a switch, and the bindings release Bart's wrists and ankles. Unsteadily getting to his feet, the teen struggles to maintain balance, body wracked with pain and limbs mostly asleep. With the doctor's hand crushing his upper arm, he's led from the room toward one of the ship's lengthy hallways. Amid the hustle and bustle, he spots a familiar face in a familiar predicament.

"Blue Beetle!" he shouts, voice heavy with emotion.

Jaime is sporting a black eye and a swollen lip. Wearing the same outfit as Bart—short sleeves and shorts, to enhance the ease at which the doctors can torture them—his arms and legs are littered with bruises and small patches of medical gauze. He walks as though his ribs are injured.

"Impulse!" He jerks against his captor's grip, but it only earns him a slap to the back of the head.

"Wait! Wait!" Bart, too, flails, not caring that it's useless because that's his _friend _and he hasn't seen him for four days. "Let me talk to him. Let me talk to him!"

The grasp tightens, and nails begin digging grooves into his flesh. Before the doctor can do any more damage, however, Tigress commands, "Let them speak."

"Why should I?" the crewmen respond in almost perfect unison.

"Because it will shut _that _one up," she explains, disgust on her face as she points to Jaime. "You have been complaining of his consistent demands to see his friends. This will silence him."

"That won't happen until I can see Beast Boy, too!" Jaime protests angrily.

Narrowing her eyes, she retorts, "You may either speak to him or you speak to no one. Choose."

"I'll talk," he mutters grudgingly.

After a moment, the boys are led to one another, off to the side. Bart, unable to formulate any words, simply stares at his friend, relishing the simple fact that he's alive.

"You okay?" Jaime asks quietly, eyes lingering on the scars.

"Been better," he replies with a smirk because it's his job to be the light-hearted one, and he'll play that role as best he can.

"What are they doing to you?"

"Checking what my powers do to me. You know, usual mad scientist thing. You?"

"Investigating how the scarab affected my body. They removed it—most of it, anyway." There's a sadness that can't be missed.

"How'd you get the bruises?" he asks, even though he really doesn't want to know.

"Insubordination." He smiles, but it looks hurt, too.

"I'm sorry," Bart mumbles, ashamed that he feared the collar so much when Jaime went through worse.

"I'm okay," the older teen insists. "We're all going to be okay."

"Have you seen Beast Boy?"

"Not since the first day."

His façade breaks as he feels his throat tighten with oncoming tears. "What if he's hurt? What if they're—?"

"_Don't _think like that," Jaime instructs. "We're going to get out of this. The Team will find us."

The doctor snorts. "Don't bet on that one."

Ignoring him, Jaime continues in a quieter voice, "It'll be alright."

Bart wants nothing more than to believe him but he can't. Hopelessness overwhelms him as he concentrates on his mission. Maybe _this _is what's needed to change the future. Maybe one of them must die, or two, or all of them. Maybe there is no happy ending. And he's a hero and he should be fine with being sacrificed for the good of the world and he should be alright with knowing that his friends will do the same but he _can't _because he's a kid, too, thrust into a world that isn't his own and is so bright and shiny on the outside that it huts to see all the evil lurking underneath. He can't stop the tears as they slide down his face. "I'm scared."

"I know," Jaime whispers, resting his forehead against the speedster's, the only contact they can manage. "But it'll work out. I promise."

With that, they're being dragged away once more, opposite directions of one another. When he is thrust into his cell, he collapses to the cold floor, closing his eyes in hopes of sleep. He doesn't care if they are going to be bringing food; he doesn't want it, doesn't want anything but sweet, sweet unconsciousness.

Somehow, he manages to drift off. In his dreams, he and his friends live to see a wonderful future.


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: If I owned this show, you wouldn't have to find "Before the Dawn" online.

Chapter 3

The silence is deafening.

He used to miss that. Ever since the Scarab had become a part of him, he'd never had any time alone. Always, in the back of his mind, it would scold him, point out something he had missed, _insist _on annihilating something or other. His retaliations had brought strange looks his way, people sure he was talking to himself, and that annoyed him to no end.

Now, he'd give anything to have it back.

He slips his right hand up his shirt and along his spine, hissing in pain as he traces the injury. Flecks of the Scarab remain, embedded in his skin, but mostly it is nothing but raw flesh caked with dried blood.

Leaning his head against the wall, he squeezes his eyes tight and tries to calm the rising emotions within him. The wave comes anyway, washing over him, drowning him. Body battered with the medical testing and punishment, his soul mourns the loss of his powers and the suffering of his friends.

"Estupido," he mutters to himself. "_Estupido_."

As the oldest, he shouldn't have let this happen. When Bart grabbed that tracking device, he should have prevented him from bringing it into the Cave. The speedster was just a kid; he wouldn't have known any better. Besides, this wasn't even his time period, and if he couldn't grasp the importance of secret identities, how could he be expected to anticipate an infiltration?

And Garfield…he hadn't even been _with _them, just a casualty of war. Only thirteen-years-old, he was the baby brother of the Team, the souvenir collector, the jokester. Jaime doesn't even know what's _happening _to him right now. No doubt he's being tortured as well—it has been made clear that the search for the so-called "Meta-Gene" is top priority. The thought sickens him, and as images of Bart, bearing scars and unable to keep himself from crying, flash before his eyes, he finds himself dry-heaving, stomach too empty to yield vomit.

"C-calm down," he whispers once his body is under control. "Losing it won't help the situation. Just be strong; I have to be strong. The Team will come."

That's what he'd told Bart. That's what he wants to believe. Even as he says it, though, it tastes like lies, like fairy tales and _happily ever after'_s. They're under the ocean somewhere, and even though the Team is looking for them—he knows they are, that much he's certain—they might not find them any time soon. Being needed alive is only a temporary condition, and once they are no longer useful, they will be disposed of. In the eyes of these creatures, they are nothing but meat, tools for experimentation.

"Food."

The sudden voice shocks him, and he can't help but jump. The new villain, Tigress, is standing before his cell, a tray in her hand and a sneer on her face.

"I don't want it," he spits, hands clenching into fists.

"You haven't had anything in four days," she tells him, speaking as though he's a stupid child.

"I don't care," he growls. "You only want me alive so you can use me!"

"Does it matter?" she asks haughtily, sliding the tray under the lowest bars.

"I'm more than just a science test!"

"Not to us you aren't." With that, she turns on her heels and walks away.

"You're human!" he shouts after her, slamming his fists against the bars. "How can you do this? Don't you care about anything?"

She doesn't even glance back.

"Monster!" he shrieks. "Traitor! You'll never get away with this! My Team will destroy you!"

The words come out in an angry rush, and he's not even sure of what he's saying, but it seems to strike a nerve. Just before she's out of the room, she stops, as though frozen. It's only a momentary pause, but it's noticeable. He doesn't know what it means, if it even matters, and he doesn't have the energy to figure it out. Turning to the tray, holding a small cup of water and slop that must be food, he forces it down his throat because if he's going to die, it'll be fighting. He has to keep fighting because Bart and Garfield need him and he wouldn't dare leave them behind.

Finishing the meal, he lies on his stomach and stares at the walls. There is no light in this area of the ship, and the darkness suddenly seems to be surrounding him, wrapping around him like a straight-jacket. It creeps into his brain, crawling through every crevice, shaking him to his core. The Scarab's absence becomes all too obvious, and the desire to talk to someone, _anyone_, bubbles within him.

_"God is always with you, hijo_." His mother's words ring in his mind. _"He'll always be listening_."

It's been years since he prayed outside of church, but if there was ever a time to pick up that habit, it's now.

Assuming a kneeling position, he brings his hands together and rests them against his chest. Gathering his thoughts, struggling to simplify everything he hopes to say into a single prayer, he slips into his native tongue: "Por favor, Dios, nos proteja. Por favor."

Protect them. Not save, not free, because the Team will do that. All they need is to live until then.

Sinking to the floor, he tucks his arms underneath his head and closes his eyes. It takes some time—_Garfield and Bart are hurt, they're screaming for him, he can't help them, please, stop, don't hurt them, no, no, NO_—but he finally succumbs to sleep. In his dreams, they are back on land, safe and sound under the glow of the sun.


	4. Chapter 4

Disclaimer: This show would be on everyday if I owned it.

Chapter 4

She sits heavily on her bunk, ripping off her mask and throwing it to the floor. As she watches it skitter wildly across the smooth surface, she has the urge to stomp on it. That, of course, would draw suspicion and put the entire mission in jeopardy, but at this point, perhaps the mission is failing anyway. "Dying" was hard enough, leaving behind her loved ones, becoming an entirely different person, but seeing what's happening to Jaime and Garfield and Bart…she can't take that. La'gaan's capture was hard enough to hear; that had never been part of the plan. Now, with three more as prisoners, she's regretting ever getting involved. Putting her safety on the line and putting _other's _safety on the line are two entirely different things, especially when the others are just kids.

She snorts to herself, wondering when she got so old, when they all got so old. The Team she had joined is all grown up, and it makes her ache a little to think about.

"Tigress."

Wearily, she addresses her cohort. "Kaldur'ahm."

"We must talk," he says, closing the door.

Offering a small smirk, she muses, "Now, Kaldur'ahm, what will people think if we are alone together?"

"You have been quite busy today."

Face falling, she asks, "What's that supposed to mean?"

"You ended the speedster's experiment early; you allowed him to speak with the Blue Beetle; you intervened between Tommy Terror and Beast Boy."

"You know their names," she can't help but hiss, glaring at him. "You can call them their names."

He blinks, as though coming out of a trance, and Artemis regrets acting so harshly. Spending a year in this guise cannot be easy on him, and shifting from loyal son of Black Manta to hero must not come so quickly anymore. "My apologizes. You are right."

"But you're still going to tell me everything I did was wrong, aren't you?"

"Compassion is dangerous," he explains, sitting beside her. "You are supposed to be a ruthless assassin. Straying too far from that can risk the operation."

"I didn't sign up to watch my teammates get tortured," she protests quietly, surprised how natural the word "teammates" feels.

"I know," he sighs. "And I know it is difficult, but it must be done. Too much is at stake."

"They're killing them," she whispers, voice constricted, thinking about Jaime and Bart on those operating tables being poked and prodding, thinking about a bloodied and bruised Garfield. She decides it's not the best time to tell him that she'd almost_, almost_ apologized to the shape-shifter, held back only by her duty as a hero.

"We need them alive."

Shaking her head, she objects, "They're still getting hurt."

"They are strong. They can handle it."

He speaks like a general, the one he insisted he wasn't after the failed simulation so many lifetimes ago, back when the Team was new and the aliens weren't real. She wishes he was still just a soldier.

"When do they begin experimenting on Garfield?"

"In two day's time."

"Why later than the others?"

Kaldur'ahm stares at his hands, eyeing faded scars Artemis had never known were there. "I convinced them that it would be more beneficial to observe him in a natural environment before proceeding with the testing."

"Well, Tommy Terror finds it beneficial for his fighting…" Her voice trails off as her mind replays his words. "What are they going to do to him?"

"They plan on extracting the Meta-Gene. They believe his is perhaps the most advanced, and they want to see how it influences his organs."

"And how will they do that?" she questions, disliking his approach to her question.

"They will remove his organs."

It's barely audible, but the information echoes around the room, bouncing off the walls and reverberating in her mind. "They plan on killing him."

"Artemis—"

"Do not _Artemis _me," she snarls, getting to her feet. "You _knew _what they were going to do to him and you didn't think to get him out of here?"

"It could not be done, not without—"

"Jeopardizing the mission," she finishes, unable to hide the disgust.

"We have not come this far to fail now," he protests. "We have finally discovered the Light's new ally, infiltration seems near—"

"And the only sacrifice is a thirteen-year-old boy," she interjects.

"The Team will rescue them before it comes to that," he insists.

"It's been four days; how much longer are they going to wait?"

"Nightwing has no other choice—finding us too quickly is suspicious, and the Team is most-likely shaken after the incident."

The incident. When she obliterated the Cave, the place where they trained and grew and became a family. Their lifeline, their safe haven, their home.

"It's not fair," she whispers. "Everyone else has to suffer because of what we're doing."

"We are heroes. All of us. And whatever must be done for the good of the world, will be done."

"Not that any of them _know_ they're suffering for the good of the world." The words erupt from her mouth, working without orders from her brain. "Not that any of them know you're not evil and I'm not dead. Not that any of them know that the Cave had to be destroyed. Not that La'gaan and Jaime and Bart know that they have to be experimented on. Not that Garfield knows that he must be beaten by Tommy Terror."

"I understand that this seems wrong—"

"It doesn't _seem _wrong; it _is _wrong!" The composure she forced herself to maintain evaporates as her fears and regrets and doubts rage within her. "Jesus Christ, the life of a child is on the line and we're not doing anything!"

Strong hands grip her shoulder. "Listen to me," he commands, using his leader voice from all the lifetimes ago, and it calms her down, just enough for him to continue. "No one will die. I swear to you that no one is going to die."

"How can you be so sure?" she asks, and even she can hear the weakness. "How can you stay so collected through all of this?"

Silver eyes meet hazy grey, and, for a fleeting instant, his webbed fingers trail gently along her cheek. "Because I must."

With that, he turns and leaves the room, and Artemis returns to her bed, staring at the cold metal surrounding her.

He's wrong. There have already been deaths. The Kaldur she knew, the big brother, the leader, the one who balanced order with compassion, is no more. He is still Kaldur'ahm and he is still Aqualad, but it's not the same. His calm, ever-patient smile no longer graces his face, even when it is just the two of them, and she has no hopes of its return. Something broke within him, and it's so buried, so concealed, that it cannot be fixed.

Nightwing is no longer Robin. Sure, technically, he hasn't been for two years, but it's more than that. Even as Blüdhaven's hero, even after the second Robin's murder, he had still been the younger brother. He cackled and trolled and been the ninja they had all come to love. Now he's so serious, so mature, and she knows he must still smile and laugh, but it's not enough, not even close to enough, and that scares her so much because he's cracking before her eyes and there's nothing she can do.

In a way, she's dead, too. She had spent years avoiding become a villain, dodging her destiny, and yet here she is, Tigress. It doesn't count because it's all pretend, but nothing is ever truly fake, and she wonders how long she can play this part until Artemis fades.

She would never consider anyone on the Team, old or new, innocent, because they've seen too much and know too much for that, but she longs for the times before this mission, before she realized how cruel and how sick this world was. Years of training under her father should have taught her this, and the fact that it didn't sends a small tremor through her body.

Burying her head under the pillow, she takes a few deep breaths and forces her mind to relax. Within an hour, she manages sleep. In her dreams, she and her teammates are young again and innocent for the first time.


	5. Chapter 5

Disclaimer: My show would never go on hiatus.

Chapter 5

An angry, high-pitched shrieking erupts around him, shattering the silence of the night. Sitting upright, Garfield cowers in the corner of his cell, unsure of what is happening. He refuses to even entertain the thought of a rescue because hopes can't be crushed if they aren't even formed.

"Get the changling!"

The voice sounds faded, like it's very far away, but that doesn't stop Garfield from shaking slightly. Attempting to shrink even more, he buries his head in his knees and clamps his hands over his ears as though he can block out the world.

A hand is suddenly crushing his upper arm, and his head snaps up to see Tommy Terror, a sadistic grin on his face.

"You thought I was kiddin'?" he leers as he drags the teenager behind him.

"What's going on?" Garfield asks, staggering to keep up.

"Yer little friends finally came to save yer sorry hide. Doctors, 'course, can't have that. Shame, really, that all they gon' find of you is a lifeless corpse."

Perhaps it's only a scare tactic, but it works. Legs going limp, Garfield stammers, "They're g-going to kill me?"

"No, no, no. You misunderstand me—they gon' experiment on you, and _that's _going to kill you."

"No," he breathes, heart pounding wildly in his chest.

"Oh, yes." Heaving an exaggerated sigh, he muses, "But it's a shame, in a way; I'm gon' miss playing with you."

"Please let me go," he whispers, straining weakly against his grasp for the first time. "Don't let them do this to me. Please."

"Sorry, itty, but can't do that. See, I let you go, I die instead. And I really ain't up for that."

They stop at the end of the hallway. Kicking open one of the double doors, Tommy shoves him inside and offers small wave. "Bye, bye."

Before Garfield can even react, a ripple of electricity courses through his body. A scream catches in his throat, and as he sinks to the floor, convulsing, he feels two people on each side of him. When the electricity stops, he can do nothing as they carry him toward a medical bed. Carelessly, they drop him onto his back, and as one forces his arms to his side, the other pins his legs. A clicking of metal and he realizes that he is strapped down.

"We have to make this quick." A man in a white overcoat approaches, scalpel clenched tightly in his hand. Although staring at the shape-shifter, he is clearly talking to the others scattered around the room, working with equipment or waiting with more tools. "Sterility is not priority—he's not supposed to live, anyway. I want all those cryo-containers ready. I am not taking any risks of losing these organs, understand?"

The hopelessness of the situation crashes onto him, and the tears stream unashamedly down his face. The Team is here but it's too late, no one can save him, and God, he's so scared. He wants to live, he wants to see his friends one more time, he wants his sister, but he already knows the wanting things gets him nowhere, and when his shirt is lifted slightly and the blade digs jaggedly into his abdomen, all he can do is close his eyes and wait for it to end.

A whizzing sound slices through the air, and the doctor, with a grunt, ceases what he is doing. There are gasps and shouts, but they are soon halted by what sounds like a fight. After a few moments, the collar is eased off his neck and a gentle voice murmurs, "It's over, Gar. You're going to be just fine."

"N-Nightwing?" he whimpers, opening his eyes.

The Team leader is standing next to him, a small, battered smile on his face. "It's me, Gar." Tenderly brushing the tears away, he explains, "I'm going to fix up that cut, then I'm going to get you out of here. Okay?"

Nodding weakly, he watches as the older boy reaches into his utility belt and takes out an ace bandage. With extreme delicateness and care, Nightwing wraps the wound, moving slowly to avoid aggravating any other injury. The task done, he trials his hand along the gurney until he finds the switch he needs.

The metal bars snap open, and Garfield struggles to get himself in a sitting position. Before he can accomplish that, however, he is swept into Nightwing's arms.

"I'm so sorry," he whispers. "I'm so sorry."

"I'm okay," he mumbles, hugging Nightwing around the shoulders. If he was in his right mind, acting so childish would have embarrassed him, but right now, the security and kindness is too overwhelming and soothing.

"Staying traught?" he asks, humor sneaking into his voice.

"'Course," he replies, speaking into his chest. Looking up, he inquires, "The others?"

"Being found as we speak. Don't worry—no one's getting left behind." Ruffling his hair, just a bit, he continues, "Let's get you to the Bioship—Megan can't wait to see you."

Garfield allows himself to be carried, too exhausted to walk and too content to suggest it. Nightwing's pace is quick but not a run, which leaves him to believe that the rest of the Team is thoroughly handling Black Manta's men.

Depositing him carefully onto one of the Bioship's seats, Nightwing questions, "Any other serious injuries?"

"Bruises and cuts. Nothing real bad." He rubs his eyes tiredly. "What's word on the mind link?"

"Everyone's doing well; heading back as we speak." Glancing toward Manta's sub, he smirks. "And look who's here first."

"Oh, _Gar!_" Megan flies into the ship, slowing down just enough so she doesn't crush him with a hug. "Oh, I've been so worried!"

"I'm okay, sis," he promises, trying out a smile for the first time in days.

"You will be when we patch you all up," she objects, tracing the contusions on his face. Kissing his forehead, she squeezes him to her. "I'm never going to let anything like this happen again."

"I know," he replies, snuggling closer to her.

Quietly, she begins humming, a nonsensical tune she'd created to consol the nightmares that would plague him. Bright, happy memories bloom within his mind, and they tread upon the darkness that his captivity has released. Relaxing in her arms, he feels like he's home.


	6. Chapter 6

Disclaimer: Not my show.

Chapter 6

The alarm awakens him, an unbearable shrieking that pounds against his skull. Groaning, he stirs slowly, the insufficient amount of food taking a toll on his body. With great effort, he forces himself to his feet and makes his ways to the front of the cell, straining his eyes for any sign of movement.

"Please, please, please," he chants quietly, gripping the bars tightly. It's dangerous, convincing himself that the Team has come to rescue them, but he can't shake the thought from his mind. It _has_ to be them, it just has to be. "Please, please, please."

His desperate pleas are answered by the approach of the doctor.

With short, angry jabs, he punches in the code that opens the door. As Bart backs away, his torturer grabs him by the front of his shirt and jerks him forward before dangling the collar controller before his eyes. "Come with me," he snarls.

No other option, Bart obeys, slinking behind him. Instinctively, he wants to run, but he refrains because he knows it will do no good. Swallowing hard, he gathers his courage and asks, "What's happening?"

"Your friends have infiltrated the ship," he growls, twisting his head so he can shoot the young speedster a glare. "And we cannot afford to lose you before the experimentation is finished. If you even _think _about fleeing, you will regret it."

"Oh, you're a mind reader?" he blurts, fatigue and stress and fear overriding his common sense.

Suddenly, he is slammed against the wall, knocking the wind from his body. A choked cry escapes him as he struggles for air.

"Do _not _test me," the doctor growls, face contorted with fury. "I am in no mood to deal with a little brat like you. So continue as you are and I _will _convince my superiors that studying you dead is more beneficial than studying you alive. Understand?"

The threat is not an idle one. "Y-yes," he manages weakly, avoiding eye contact.

With a snort of disgust, the doctor grips his shoulder and drags him along. Lowering his head, Bart allows a single tear to break through. Coming back so he could save the future; who was he kidding? He's not some hero—he's just a kid. A scared kid who's only good at being pushed around, no matter what time period he's in and no matter how much he tries to convince himself otherwise. Crash the mode? He's probably the reason the future is so screwed up to begin with, bringing that stupid tracking device into the Cave. Why did he think he could do this? He can't do _anything_.

The doctor lets out of yelp of surprise, his hand leaving Bart's shoulder as it flies to the top of his back.

"Not quite fast enough," a female voice chides.

Whirling around, the doctor comes face-to-face with Bumblebee, now normal size. Before he can finish raising his fists, a foot to his face leaves him unconscious.

"Well, that was easy," she muses dryly, dropping beside the fallen man. As she rummages through his pocket, she looks up at Bart and smiles. "Hey, there, Baby Flash."

Hastily eliminating all signs that he'd been crying, he returns, "Bee, you don't know how glad I am to see you."

"I'm sure you'll be even happier when we get that collar of your neck. Nightwing said there were keys—aha!" Victorious, she holds up a silver disk. Getting to her feet, she slips it into the back of the device, and it unhinges from his neck.

Sighing, he rubs the newly-freed skin. "Much better."

Ruffling his hair affectionately, Bee says, "Let's get going—the Bat Clan's having a field day with explosives, but that'll only hold these guys so long."

"What about Jaime and Garfield? And La'gaan?"

"Connor found La'gaan; they're already on the ship, plus all the human prisoners. Nightwing has Garfield, and Cassie is going for Jaime. We're all covered, Bart."

"Thank goodness," he breathes. The constant adrenaline rush he's had for the past four days is countered by the rush of relief, leaving him lightheaded and unsteady on his feet.

"Whoa, there, kid." Grabbing him gently around the waist, she asks, "You alright?"

"Guys here really didn't care much for a speedster's metabolism," he offers, true enough.

"Even more of a reason to get you to the ship—we packed provisions." Adjusting him so his arm is slung across her shoulders, she begins walking. Though he attempts to keep pace, she's mostly carrying him all the way back, but she doesn't seem to mind.

Once at the entrance of the Bioship, his eyes scan his surroundings: human captives lining the walls, standing or sitting; Connor, in guard garb, is speaking with Nightwing; La'gaan has his arms around Megan, and lying down, head in her lap, is—

"Garfield!"

The other boy immediately sits up, and they stare at each other for only a second before running toward another.

"Bart!" he cries as they embrace.

"Oh, man, am I glad to see _you_. I've been feeling the mode since we were separated!"

"Same! I think."

A chuckle bursts forth—it feels like forever since he laughed—but it fades when he focuses on his friend's appearance. "What'd they do to you?"

Shrugging, the shape-shifter explains, "Tommy Terror likes to hit things. But it's nothing compared to what they were going to do." Tugging at his shirt, he reveals the ace bandage, lightly stained with blood. "You know, usual hero stuff."

He's trying to down-play it, but Bart can hear his voice trembling and can see the pain in his eyes. Now, though, isn't the time to dwell on it. When they're safe and sound, they'll swap horror stories, admit to their pain and their suffering. They'll cope. For now, they'll just celebrate the fact that they're alive.

Gesturing to his scars, he says, "Subject of some mad scientist. Happens when you need to save the world."

"Noted."

"Hey, Bart. I have something for you."

Turning towards the Team leader's voice, Bart notices a bag in his hand. "Na-uh. That's—"

"Freeze-dried Chicken Whizzes? Of course."

"Dude! You are so crash!"

"I've spent plenty of years dealing with a speedster—learned a few things." Tossing the package of goods, he continues, "We have more food, when you need it."

Contently, he leans against the wall and slides to the floor before opening the bag. Digging in, he asks Garfield, through a mouthful, "Want some?"

"Vegan," he objects, taking a seat next to him, leaning slightly so the sides of their heads are touching. Quietly, he murmurs, "I missed you."

Swallowing a mouthful, he returns, "I missed you, too. I was so scared, you know?"

"Same." After a moment, he adds, "But it's all okay."

He thinks that over. Maybe the future is fixed; maybe it's not. He has time, though. Time to alter the course of history. Time to enjoy life. Time to laugh. Time to grow. Time to live.

And it's only a gut feeling, but he's sure that it's all going to work out.

"Yeah. It's okay."


	7. Chapter 7

Disclaimer: Cartoon Network owns this show, even though it doesn't deserve to.

Chapter 7

Incessant wailing crashes through his unconscious and brings him to reality. With a gasp, he sits upright, blinking in the darkness. After a few moments, he stands, back pressed against the wall, body contorting itself into a defensive stance. Whatever's happening—it might not be a rescue, don't believe that just yet—this could be his only chance of escape, and if he sees an opportunity, he'll take it.

Minutes pass. The alarm drones on. He maintains his position.

"Come on, come on," he mutters, although he has no idea what or who he's addressing. "Come _on_."

One more minute. A thousand. A million. Even the alarm seems to be quieter, as though growing weary. Maybe no one's coming. Maybe he's stuck here forever.

Hands falling limply to his sides, he clamps his eyes shut and takes a few ragged breaths. "Tranquilo," he whispers. "Tranquilo."

The sound of breaking metal interrupts the siren's pattern and snaps his attention to reality. Cassie, with ease, is ripping open the bars.

"Jaime!" she squeals, floating towards him once the task is complete. With a bone-crushing grip, she envelopes him in a hug. "You're okay!"

The fabric of his shirt chafes against his raw skin, and he can't contain a small grunt of pain. In an instant, she retracts, hurriedly offering apologizes.

"It's fine," he promises, already missing her warmth. "My back, it's just a little sore, that's all."

Absorbing the information, she asks quietly, "The Scarab?"

"They removed it," he explains, speaking to the floor and rubbing his arm awkwardly.

"Oh, Jaime." She's hugging him again, but it is much gentler this time, more soothing. "I'm sorry."

He can't find it in himself to answer because his throat has suddenly gone painfully dry, the realization that he is no longer a hero slowly seeping into his mind. Collecting himself, he manages, "What about the others?"

"Everyone's back on the bioship except Batgirl and Robin." Tilting her head slightly, like she's trying to hear something better, she adds, "We have to get going. This thing called Black Beetle's closing in."

Before he can respond, she slips one arm underneath his knees and has the other around his waist, holding him in front of her as she flies them toward their location. It's a blow to his masculine pride, but, honestly, he doesn't mind all that much.

_This Wonder Girl is triggering bio-chemical changes again, _he can almost hear the Scarab chiding. It's a bitter-sweet thought.

In no time, they are at their destination, and Cassie places him down as quickly as possible, like she knows he'd rather not be carried on-board. Gently squeezing his hand, she murmurs, "Welcome back," before flashing a smile and taking a seat next to Bee.

As he feels as blush creeping along his cheeks and chills cascade across his body, a soft impact to his side causes him to look down. Bart has his arms wrapped around him, head resting against in chest. In a moment, Garfield is on his other side.

Relief washing over him, he returns the embrace. "Thank God. Thank _God_ you guys are alright."

"Right back at you, hermano," Bart returns, smiling impishly over his brilliant use of Spanish.

Pushing him playfully, the oldest focuses his attention on Garfield. It's then that he notices all the cuts and bruises. "Cristo, what did they do to you?"

Ears drooping slightly, the shape-shifter murmurs, "It's not that bad."

It is that bad, worse than bad, and Jaime wants to find everyone aboard that sub and punish them for what they did to Garfield, what they did to Bart. He won't, though, because Gar's eyes are shiny from unshed tears and Bart is holding onto him even tighter. Revenge won't help anything. What they need right now is comfort, and he can give them that.

"It's all going to be okay," he assures them softly. "Nothing like this will ever happen again. I won't let it."

"I know," they boys respond simultaneously, and the honesty in their voices strikes Jaime to his core.

"Get ready to go!"

Breaking apart, the boys, in addition to everyone else on ship, turn toward Batgirl sprinting toward them. Robin is farther behind her, chucking explosives at a larger, darker version of the Blue Beetle.

"Robin,_ get on board_!" Nightwing commands, reaching into his utility belt and taking out five navy disks.

Letting loose a final string of weapons, the younger Bat obeys, clutching his jacket to his side. As Black Beetle shakes of the nuisances and charges after him, Nightwing releases his own ammunition. Robin slides into safety just as the disks latch onto the enemy. High-pitched cackling roars for just a second before they detonate. While the enemy howls in rage, Megan throws herself into the piloting seat and severs the connection between the two vessels. Faster than it has ever gone before, the Bioship is barreling into the open ocean.

An eruption of cheers resonates, heroes and civilians alike celebrating the victory. When the noise lowers slightly, Nightwing turns to Robin and says, "Cutting it a little close there, weren't you?"

"Had no choice—there was something I had to grab." With that, he pulls aside his jacket and takes out the Scarab.

Jaime stares at it for a moment, utterly disbelieving. "How'd you find it?" he gasps.

"Luck, mostly. Saw it during a sweep of the rooms, and I figured you'd miss it. Of course, we have to do a full analysis of it, make sure the Reach didn't add any world-destroying qualities, but when that's done, it's all yours."

A smile creases his face, and it feels strange for a moment, as though his body has forgotten what this is. Glancing down at Bart and Garfield, both chattering about him still getting to be Blue Beetle, it settles right into place.

Slinging his arms around the shoulders, he asks, "Who's ready to get some decent sleep tonight?"

"Uh, technically, it's morning," Bart points out. "Five-twenty, actually."

Ruffling his hair, Jaime counters, "Close enough."

The boys seem to agree, for both plop to the floor, dragging Jaime with them. He lies down—the ship, somehow, is much more comfortable than his cell—and the two snuggle closer to him, his chest as their pillows. Garfield's tail snakes across his stomach so it's resting on Bart's shoulders.

They fall asleep after a while, but Jaime fights to keep his eyes open. He can't follow them, not just yet…

The ship breaches the surface, and the breaking dawn greets him, with the sun glowing hazy red on the horizon and soft pinks and oranges dancing across the sky. With a small, contented sigh, he, too, allows himself to dream.


	8. Chapter 8

Disclaimer: Was this show on Saturday morning? Then it's not mine.

Chapter 8

"A disaster," Kaldur'ahm mutters to her as they leave his father's room. "All subjects, including the meta-humans, taken."

"A disgrace that our men could not defeat the rag-tag group," she returns, a sneer on her face.

"Exactly." He glares at one of the subordinate crewman, who lowers his eyes in shame before retreating down the hallway. "Training will have to be intensified. We cannot afford to let such a catastrophe repeat itself."

"No, we cannot." Shooting a nasty look at one of the doctors, nursing a broken arm, she mutters to her comrade, "Let us speak in private."

With a curt nod, he follows her into her bunker and closes the door. The sternness and contempt disappear from his features, replaced with a small smile. "It worked."

A burst of laughter escapes her, bouncing around the room. For four days, guilt and panic and fear had been constant companions, fangs dug deep into her flesh, leaving behind tattered skin and dripping blood as she heard their cries and saw their pain and did _nothing_. For four days, she questioned everything—the mission, her friends, herself—because maybe what they were doing was right but it still seemed so wrong. For four days, she was Tigress, embedded in the guise to keep herself from slipping, and for four days, she wondered if she would sink so deep that she wouldn't be able to return.

As she throws her arms around her cohort, she knows everything will work out. The captives are free and the mission is on track and she, she is Artemis.

"That went _perfectly_," she breathes.

"Did you doubt us?" he questions jokingly.

"Well, if you had told me that Nightwing knew all the right hallways to seal, I would have been a little more confident."

"I said everything was on the flash drive."

Shoving his arm lightly, she counters, "Being specific would have been appreciated."

"To be fair, I was not sure if he would be able to use that information without giving away too much to the others." With a small shrug, he continues, "Besides, I know how much you love surprises."

He's not talking like Kaldur'ahm or even Aqualad; he sounds like Kaldur, the Team leader, the big brother, and she can't keep herself from grinning.

"I heard Nightwing cackle," she murmurs suddenly. He'd been at the end of her hallway, armed with explosives, and they had eye contact for the briefest second before he laughed, that laugh from years past, and left her staring at dust and rubble and crackling wires. "It's been so long since he did that."

"I almost thought he had outgrown that," Kaldur admits.

"Same."

She's glad he hasn't because it means some things are still the same. They're not all grown up, not just yet.

"We will be home soon."

He proposes it so casually, as though they're on a vacation and not an undercover mission. She almost doesn't process what the words truly mean.

"What?"

"In a month's time, we will be home."

Crossing her arms over her chest, she skeptically repeats, "A month?"

"You are right; that is too optimistic." Thinking for a moment, he amends, "A month and nine days."

She snorts quietly but takes his word for it; this is Kaldur talking, after all, and she trusts him. "What's the first thing you'll do when you get back?"

Silver eyes cloud with sorrow, and he whispers, "I will beg forgiveness for what I have done."

Her heart twists within her. Reaching for his hand, she counters, "Not like that. Something fun. Something you've missed." After a moment, she continues, "When I'm back on land, I'm going to give Wally the biggest kiss of his life. And then I'm going to walk the dog."

"Walk the dog?" Amusement hides beneath his words.

"What can I say? I'm an animal person and I miss her."

Nodding at this, Kaldur thinks for a moment. "I will spend time with my Teammates. All of them."

"Movie night?" she suggests, smirking. She remembers all the arguments that had over what to watch, the bowls of food and cups of soda scattered haphazardly around the room, the cuddling under blankets and the cover of darkness.

"Yes. And perhaps I will convince Robin and Beast Boy to show me some of the newest video games. I am sure, if they are anything like Nightwing and Kid Flash, that they enjoy them."

"Ugh, you really want to get stuck in video game battles? Those never ended well."

"Connor only broke a controller once."

"But Zatanna ripped one out of the system five different times. Why not something less insane, like—"

"Poker?" he offers, a mischievous tone in his voice.

"Oh, God, no. Not after Wally got all of you guys to play a game of strip poker."

"Harmless fun."

"Because the only one who kept losing was him!"

"He did not seem to mind. And if my memory serves me, neither did you."

Blushing furiously, she mutters, "Shut up."

"It was not as bad as those prank wars Robin would initiate."

"How he managed to drag us into those every other month is still beyond me. Or how we never got into serious trouble."

"Except the time Black Canary found the training arena covered in whipped cream."

Laughing, she recalls, "We got a half an hour lecture _and _had to clean it all up, which took up the whole day."

"But we were still permitted to go to the fair that night."

"Wally won me that giant teddy bear." She can picture it in her mind, the fluffy ball of brown fur holding an _I Love You _heart, and she wonders if Wally has left it in its rightful spot on the bed. "And you won the dolphin for Raquel."

"Raquel." He says her name fondly. "I must not forget to congratulate her on her marriage."

Artemis smiles. Even though he could never love her like he did Tula, they had shared something special—walks along the beach, inside jokes, a fleeting kiss on the cheek when they thought no one was looking. Raquel's found her true love, but that doesn't mean she won't be thrilled to hear that her Kaldur is back.

"A month and nine days," she murmurs.

"A month and nine days." Knowing he must get back into character, he heads for the door. With one last look to his partner, he adds, "We are almost there, Artemis."

Retreating to her bed, she stares at the wall, musing. She was wrong—Kaldur and Robin, they're not dead, just a little broken, but that can be fixed with video games and movies and pranks and fairs. And she, Artemis, she's not dead, either. Tigress is only an alias, a disguise. She's not what her father has always wanted her to become. What she is, is a hero, and she's not going anywhere.


End file.
